


Veni, Vidi, Vici

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea Ships it with Force if Necessary, Autumn, Bisexual Greg Lestrade, Fluff, Fluffy Fools, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Happy Ending, Historical Costumes, Jellybean Mycroft, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Boys So In Love, Rampant Feelings, Smut, Tenderness, Vulnerable Greg, Zero to Married in Five Chapters, background salthea, bless their hearts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2020-12-24 20:43:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21105707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: For seven years, Mycroft Holmes has kept a respectful distance from the one man who truly matters to him: Greg Lestrade. But when Mycroft finds himself in attendance at a Halloween party at Scotland Yard, he encounters a sight which might just push his restraint to the limit.Divorce wasn't easy for Greg. He's now single again and hoping to mingle, but there's only one person who's really on his mind. The chance to finally spend some time with Mycroft is a bit of a miracle - if only he hadn't picked this stupid costume...





	1. Authorisation

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been written as a part of A Halloween 13, taking place [over on Tumblr](ahalloween13.tumblr.com) in the run-up to October 31st. Before I begin, I'd like to say a huge thank you to Vulpesmellifera for all her hard work organising and running the calendar. You've done an amazing job, Vulpie. <3 Mystrade wouldn't be the same without you.
> 
> Thank you also to the folks over on Tumblr, who may have already guessed what this story might involve. :P Enjoy, you thirsty devils. I love you all.
> 
> **I don't allow translations. If you find my work posted anywhere but AO3, please let me know.**

_ WARNING: THIS IS A CLASSIFIED GOVERNMENT DATABASE. ITS CONTENTS ARE STRICTLY PROTECTED UNDER UK LAW BY THE OFFICIAL SECRETS ACT 1989.  
_ _THIS DATABASE MAY BE ACCESSED ONLY BY PERSONNEL OF LEVEL BETA AND ABOVE. _

_ PROCEED? _

Mycroft tapped his middle finger absently upon the enter key, taking a sip of coffee as his gaze trailed the international section of today's Financial Times. A pop-up window appeared for his authorisation code; he entered it without a glance. 

His second tap produced only a discordant chime.

Mycroft looked up from his newspaper, frowning, and scanned the error message now emblazoned across his screen.

_ AN AUTHORISATION CODE WAS RECENTLY CHANGED ON THIS DEVICE. ADDITIONAL AUTHORISATION IS REQUIRED.  
_ _PLEASE ALSO ENTER AUTHORISATION CODE FOR PERSONNEL MEMBER:_

_ BETA-0594931-ANTHEA _

Mycroft groaned, briefly closing his eyes.

"For heaven's sake," he whispered to the device, put his paper aside and began a fruitless attempt of his own alpha-level code. It wasn't going to work, and he knew it. The bloody thing wanted codes from them both. "She _ specifically _ requested no disturbances this evening... _please_ be amenable..."

Inhaling, he stiffly tapped enter.

_ AUTHORISATION CODE NOT RECOGNISED.  
PLEASE ENTER AUTHORISATION CODE FOR PERSONNEL MEMBER: _

_ BETA-0594931-ANTHEA _

_ AFTER 2 MORE ATTEMPTS, THIS DEVICE WILL BE LOCKED. _

Mycroft spent the next minute with his head in his hands, rubbing his temples as he attempted to think. 

He supposed he had little choice when it came to his next action, though it grieved him to realise it. He'd rather frivolously left this minor task until later in the evening, treating himself instead to a leisurely dinner at the Diogenes. This time of year always made him rather cosily lazy. It inclined him towards his beloved creature comforts, armchairs and old books and whiskey, and work tasks were often completed late at night beside his fireplace at home while wrapped in his dressing gown. Darkness had long since fallen over London; it was fast approaching eight o'clock. He'd assured the foreign secretary that the relevant information would be with him by midnight.

Draining his coffee, Mycroft let it fortify him for what must be done. She would not be pleased. He'd have to spend November softening her and regaining her affections. 

_ So be it, _he thought, and wearily reached inside his dressing gown for his mobile phone. 

Anthea took three calls to pick up. When she did, the phone issued an immediate blast of modern music; it crackled down into the amiable chatter of a party in full swing.

"Sir," she said over the background thrum, crisply polite. "I thought I'd mentioned that I'd be unavailable this evening?"

"So you did," Mycroft said, biting his tongue, "and I apologise for my very reluctant decision to violate that. I'm afraid I've been left with no other choice. Have you recently changed your authorisation code?"

Anthea paused. 

"One moment, please," she said. He listened as she made her way through a crowd. "Ah—do excuse me, so sorry... dreadfully sorry... may I get through here? Thank you." A door squeaked, then shut with a snap. The background thump of the music eased. "I did, sir," she said, inhaling. "You'll recall that you specified in February our authorisation codes should now be changed on a monthly basis."

Mycroft pressed his fingers between his eyes, rubbing in a slow circle. "I recall," he said. "I now require yours to access the T12 database." He couldn't demand that she abandon her plans and come here, not when he'd authorised them so securely. He couldn't simply ignore the work. Sighing, he said, "Where precisely is this event of yours taking place?"

He could see her almost as clearly as if she were here in front of him: the slight tightening of her cheek as she discreetly bit her tongue. 

"Scotland Yard," she said. "You _ were _ also invited, if you remember."

"I do. Sadly, circumstances being—"

"I'm afraid, Mr Holmes, if you're now asking me to leave—"

"I'm not," Mycroft said, wearily closing his laptop lid. "I shall come to you in a car. It won't take five seconds for you to enter the code, then you can return to your frivolities and I can still have this nonsense in the foreign secretary's inbox by midnight."

Anthea paused. "It... might seem rather rude, sir," she warned, "to make a flying visit through a social event to which you declined an invitation."

"Then I shall be thought rude," Mycroft said, frowning. "I can't even to begin imagine why Sergeant Donovan extended your invitation to me as well." He tutted. "A _ costume party." _

Anthea hummed. "It _ is _Halloween," she said. "It's tradition."

"It's juvenile," Mycroft corrected her, as he wrestled the laptop into its secure case. He would have to dress himself properly again; this was entirely inconvenient. "She couldn't possibly have expected that I'd actually attend."

"I believe that in fact she did—and, as it happens, I'm rather enjoying myself so far. Scotland Yard seem well-practiced at letting their hair down."

"Goodie for Scotland Yard," Mycroft said, tersely. "I shall be with you in half an hour or so. Would you be kind enough to meet me at the entr—"

"I'm in Major Crimes," Anthea chirped, and he heard the music swell once more as a door squeaked open. "Inspector Lestrade's division. Excuse me—_Chief _Inspector Lestrade's division." Mycroft's heart gripped. "See you shortly, Mr Holmes."

She hung up before Mycroft could say another word.

*

Mycroft was admitted to Scotland Yard by a hired bouncer, who pointed him in the direction of the lift with a grunt. Major Crimes occupied floor five; the sound of noisy party music became audible from floor three upwards.

Hoping that Anthea had at least stationed herself near the entrance, Mycroft bit his tongue and tightened his hold on the laptop at his side. _ Unlikely it will be stolen at Scotland Yard, _ he thought. _ All the same. _ He doubted that anyone in this building remained sober enough to help him solve the crime, if it did disappear. _ 'I misplaced it at a costume party,' _was not a sentence he ever wished to utter to his superiors.

He found himself uncommonly nervous—and painfully aware of why. 

As the lift doors opened, Mycroft glanced around and felt his heart sink. He could see no sign of Anthea nearby, merely an assortment of intoxicated police officers all gathered around a buffet, dressed to various degrees of hilarity. A cowboy and an astronaut were laughing like drains beside a mountain of mini sausage rolls; two cats and a rag doll with shiny red cheeks were manning the drinks table. Mycroft could only hope the nearby huddle of drunken and giggling young ladies worked in HR or admin, given that they'd all come to the event dressed as slutty police officers. Alcohol was clearly in full flow, with no signs of stopping soon.

Sighing inwardly, Mycroft stepped from the lift and began his search.

_ As what are you dressed? _ he texted Anthea, annoyed, after five minutes of wandering the division without the slightest shred of success. _ And where are you? _

_ Look for the red-plumed helmet, _ she advised, when she replied. _ At reception. _

Mycroft's mind boggled. He made his way back to the front desk, scanning the crowd with a frown for anything vaguely resembling a red-plumed helmet. He assumed she'd come as some manner of Grecian goddess, then—Athena, he would guess. 

But he could see no sign of a toga, nor any kind of helmet whether plumed or otherwise. Lurid superhero costumes and sailors and cats and jesters pulled his eyes in a hundred different directions, thinning his patience; the music now approached the verge of inducing a migraine.

Standing beside the desk, with still no clue of where she was, Mycroft reached with annoyance back inside his jacket. _ Otherwise I will be here until midnight,_ he thought.

As he scrolled through his contacts to ring her, a voice called his name.

"Mycroft?"

His heart jumping, Mycroft turned.

A door behind the desk stood ajar, leading to what looked like a photocopying room. The lights inside were dim, just bright enough for him to make out three figures: Sergeant Donovan, dressed as a humorous bank robber with a stripey jumper, an eyemask and a sack; beside her, a smirking Anthea in the guise of a circus ringmaster, resplendent in a tight red velvet jacket, fishnet tights, six-inch heels and a coquettishly-tilted top hat; then beside Anthea, a man that Mycroft didn't recognise - a Roman general in full leather armor. The attention to detail was certainly admirable, Mycroft noted with a startled glance. The man had greying stubble beneath the cheekguards of his red-plumed helmet, a fake scar and bronze fittings on all the armour. In fact, Mycroft realised, the costume was astonishly historically accurate, and precise to the first-century AD. There was no gleaming golden breastplate, no ludicrous plastic laurel wreath or white polyester toga underneath. The tunic was instead a muted red linen, worn beneath a suitably-battered lorica musculata sculpted from leather. The sandals were authentic calligae. The gentleman had done the whole thing extremely well. 

He had the build for it, too—broad, with shapely calves. The shoulder pieces were studded with bronze lionheads. They made his shoulders look nearly as wide as the door.

_ Lord. _

Rescuing his gaze from the sculpted leather planes of the gentleman's chest, Mycroft glanced mildly into his eyes—and realised with a lurch.

Lestrade's grin spread from ear-to-ear.

"Where's your costume?" he demanded, laughing. "Some of us have made an effort!"

_ God help me. _ Mycroft found himself incapable of response, struggling and failing to rescue his power of speech from an erupting inner volcano of lust. The wretched man was inconveniently breathtaking even under ordinary circumstances. He was now stubbled, wearing painted battlefield grime and a bloody leather skirt—_and, _ Mycroft realised with a further twist of his heart, what looked like a generous application of black kohl. 

_ Eyeliner. _

_ He is wearing eyeliner. _

_ God almighty. Is there no mercy in this world? _

"Why've you not got a drink?" Lestrade asked, still grinning as he stepped out from the filing room and offered Mycroft a hand. They shook. At the firm grip of his fingers, Mycroft nearly collapsed. "Just arrived, have you?"

Behind Lestrade's shoulder, Anthea and Sergeant Donovan cast each other pleased smirks, toasting together their plastic cups. 

As they drank, Mycroft finally felt his brain kick back into life. 

"Ahh—yes," he managed, forcing himself to breathe, and risked a glance into Lestrade's eyes. His innards writhed at the warm and reassuring smile waiting there for him. "Just arrived. Forgive me. I came for a brief word with my assistant, if I may."

Lestrade turned around, beckoning Anthea.

"Let her go, Sally," he grinned. "You'll have her back in a minute." As he stepped around the desk, he put a hand genially on Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft resisted the urge to sink to his knees there and then. "You have your brief word," Lestrade said, leaning to Mycroft's ear over the noise. "I'll fetch you a drink. Is it red or white?"

_ Oh, god. _"White," Mycroft managed, breathless, trying not to look at Lestrade's stubble. "Thank you."

Lestrade squeezed his shoulder, then strode off through the crowd. 

Realising he was staring at the leather skirt, Mycroft turned around with a cough—and found Anthea now in his presence, restraining a smirk. Her eyes danced in the whirling coloured lights from the dancefloor.

"I hear he always makes an effort," she said breezily, as she took Mycroft's laptop from under his arm. "Quite the secret of his leadership, I think. He goes the extra mile. Especially to inspire the troops." 

As she unzipped the case, she added slyly,

"I don't think he's quite aware just _ how _inspiring... or in what manner."

Mycroft's throat muscles worked. He lowered his voice, lacing it with as much displeasure as he had at his disposal.

"You have arranged this on purpose," he said to her stiffly, watching as she eased free the laptop. "You're attempting to... _ torment _ me. To provoke me into some kind of rash action."

She cast him a hurt glance, tutting. 

"I'm not sure I care for that accusation, Mr Holmes," she said, placed his laptop on the reception desk and levered it open. "I'm enjoying a social evening with my partner and her workmates. It's hardly _my_ fault you've chosen to interrupt." The screen blinked on. She rattled in her code, tapped enter, and the database opened. "There," she said, smiling. "All done."

As she zipped the laptop back into its case, she said,

"I can't quite believe it's been two years since the divorce, can you? He was telling us earlier it feels like so much longer."

Mycroft's stomach clenched. "Anthea."

"Sally says he's a whole new man these days," she went on, airily. "Back on his feet, ready for the future. He's even been on a few casual dates."

"Anthea—"

"Nothing came of them, apparently," she added, her tone mild, and eased Mycroft's laptop along the desk out of his reach. "Just testing the water. Getting his feet in the pool again. The poor thing actually had a brief attempt on Grindr, would you believe?"

Mycroft nearly whimpered. "Anthea—please—"

"I get the impression he found it a bit overwhelming," she said, with a fond smile. "Every other message was a dick pic, apparently. He got six in one day before deleting the app. Men didn't move at quite such an efficient pace when he was young. Then, you can't exactly blame them for trying, can you? And they couldn't have known he's looking for someone a little more... _ intellectual. _ Somebody he can talk with. Share his time, as well as his bed."

Mycroft's jaw set. 

"Anthea," he bit out, through half-gritted teeth, as his blood neared boiling point. "I am _fully_ aware of what you're suggesting. And I'm fully aware of what you're attempting to do. If you have purposely _ lured _ me here to witness Chief Inspector Lestrade dressed as a bloody Roman in the hope that I'll somehow snap and commit some howling indiscretion, I'm very sorry to tell you it will _ fail." _

A hand brushed Mycroft's back. He jumped, spinning on the spot to find Lestrade had reappeared, holding a plastic cup of white wine.

"Thank you, chief inspector," Mycroft breathed with a smile, and felt colour flood his cheeks. "How kind."

Lestrade's eyes seemed to dance. "No worries," he said, as Anthea slunk back to Sergeant Donovan, her heels clicking neatly in her wake. "Nice of you to come, that's all. Haven't seen you in months."

"Oh—no, I... thank you very much for inviting me." Mycroft gripped his cup, trying to smile as a normal person might. "I, ah... I might not be here long, I'm afraid. I have my laptop with me and it's rather high security. I just dropped in on my way home."

Lestrade's eyebrows perked up. "D'you want to put it in my safe?" he offered, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder. "New office. It's tucked away down the hall. And I've got both keys on me, so you can relax."

Mycroft's heart reeled. _ I can hardly protest, _ he thought. _ It would be unbearably rude. _

"How kind," he managed, wishing he didn't feel so breathless. _ Where precisely in that armour have you stashed two keys? Oh god. _"Well—yes, chief inspector, if you wouldn't mind. If you're certain it's not an inconvenience, that would be very good of you."

Lestrade's grin tugged deliciously at his stomach.

"Not at all," he said. "C'mon. You can drop your coat in there as well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a more _visual_ experience of Roman!Greg, you might like to peruse [this particular tag](https://mottlemoth.tumblr.com/tagged/roman-rupert) on my blog.


	2. Socialise

Lestrade let Mycroft through into the side corridor, gesturing to the darkened glass door at the very end. 

"That's me," he said with a smile, as the door squeaked shut behind them. The noise of the party was muffled at once. It felt wonderfully like being closed off from the world. "We've got proper CCTV down here, so your stuff'll be safe. No embarrassing government leaks on my watch."

Mycroft smiled dizzily and followed, his heart beating harder than seemed medically sound. It was so rare for the two of them to be alone together—rare and rather wonderful. 

"I don't believe I've had the chance to congratulate you on your promotion yet, chief inspector," he said. Lestrade grinned with a huff, pulling at the corner of his lip. "Sherlock passed the news along to me. Very well done. Quite a step-up in terms of responsibility, I imagine?"

"I wasn't sure at first, I'll admit. Don't like the idea of moving too far back from the front lines. Still, I suppose I'm getting on..." Lestrade reached beneath the neck of his tunic, fishing out two modern keys on a string of tough brown cord.  _ Ahh,  _ Mycroft thought.  _ Mystery solved.  _ "Decided I'd rather move on up the ladder," Lestrade added, with an amused but weary glance. "Better that than spend the next twenty years answering to fresh-faced graduates half my age."

Mycroft smiled, weakly. He knew that particular pain. 

Lestrade fitted the key into his office door, worked against the stiffness of the new lock for a moment, then twisted it open. The scent of freshly-laid carpet and recently-freshened paint emerged.

"Make yourself at home," Lestrade said, reached around the wall and snapped on the light, holding the door open for Mycroft. "Should be room for your coat on the back of the door with mine. I'll get the safe unlocked. Just pop your wine down on the bookshelf for now, I don't mind."

As Mycroft unbuttoned his coat, trying not to fumble over the buttons, Lestrade eased off his helmet and laid it to one side on his desk. He scrubbed a hand through his messy grey hair, wildening it even further, and knelt down to input a code into the electronic panel of his safe. It was a curious thing to see a Roman general do.

Mycroft couldn't stop glancing at his muscular bloody forearms. 

_ Why did we abandon leather armour as a society?  _ he wondered, hooking his coat on the back of the door beside Lestrade's. His fingers were still shaking.  _ Why not at least retain it for casual daywear?  _ He stepped back and felt his heart give a flutter at the sight of their coats hanging together, the fabric casually touching as if the two had always longed to meet.  _ Lord, what is wrong with me? Must I be so desperately inclined to sentiment whenever he appears? _

Supposing he would look out of place dressed so formally, Mycroft quickly and nervously removed his tie. When he'd hung the length of red silk up with his coat, he glanced over and found Lestrade watching him across the office, leaning with one hand atop the open safe.

The small smile was enough to set his pulse racing all over again.

"Why a Roman?" he heard himself ask.

Lestrade laughed. "My twin brother's a historical re-enactor, would you believe? He goes round schools doing workshops, then on the weekends he's off camping with his group. They hold events and have battles for the public. He gives me a cheeky lend of his stuff every year."

Mycroft tried a smile. "And he's now at a party dressed as a Scotland Yard detective, is he?"

Lestrade's eyes seemed to dance. They were breath-taking, more so than memory could ever capture. "M&S trousers, a three-day-old shirt and clutching his sixth mug of coffee since lunch," he said. "Yep."

Heart skittering, Mycroft knelt down by the safe and eased his laptop inside. Anthea's handbag was already in here. Lestrade's wallet, a phone and a bunch of keys sat beside it, the ring cluttered with numerous keyrings. The biggest announced in a curly purple font with flowers:  _ This awesome UNCLE belongs to MAISIE. _

As Mycroft straightened up from the safe, brushing down his knees, Lestrade said,

"I don't think I've ever seen you without a tie." His face worked, humour and apology bright in his eyes. "It's like you're half-naked, Mycroft. Sorry if I stare."

_ Chance would be a fine thing.  _ "I'm afraid this is the nearest I'll ever come to fancy dress," Mycroft said, with a nervous smile. He watched Lestrade kneel, closing up the safe. "I'll, ah... I'll need to have the laptop back at around eleven, if that's quite alright. I have some work I need to finish by midnight."

Lestrade shot him a dubious look from his knees, one eyebrow raised. "Someone's seriously expecting you to work until midnight on Halloween?"

"There's...  _ perhaps _ a small possibility I could have completed it earlier."

Lestrade grinned. "Mycroft Holmes, cramming his homework at the last minute? I'm not believing that for a second." He input the code digit-by-digit, then locked it manually with a second key from around his neck. "Can't be too careful," he said, tucking it back beneath this tunic. "Just grab me when you want your stuff back, alright?"

Mycroft resisted the urge to bite his lip. "I will, chief inspector. Thank you."

"Things'll be winding up by eleven anyway. Winding up or getting a taxi to the nearest pub." Lestrade smiled—a little wolfish, a little fond. "You know I don't mind if you call me Greg, don't you? Known each other long enough now."

_ Seven years,  _ Mycroft thought. It almost ached.  _ Seven years of... _

"Forgive me," he managed. "I... rarely socialise, these days. Far more accustomed to formal names." Even thinking of the man in front of him as 'Greg' raised heat across the back of his neck. He quite wanted to stay in here all evening, not return to the party, keep the wicked man and his magnificent eyes and his bloody leather armour all to himself. 

A new topic of conversation helpfully suggested itself from the back of his brain.

"I've been very pleased for our respective second-in-commands," he said. "They seem to be getting on with things quite nicely."

Greg smiled, folding his arms across his chest. His forearms strained at their leather bracers. 

"I'm glad, too," he said. "It's good to see Sally happy. We all wind her up that she's been bagged by a posh girl."

Mycroft tried his very hardest not to smile. "There are worse people to be bagged by, surely."

"Ha. Afraid I've never had the pleasure."

_ Could I interest you in sampling a posh boy? We're similar.  _ Mycroft coughed. "I have high hopes for the two of them," he said. "Opportunities for happiness in this world can be limited. It's nice to see two hard-working young women find it in each other."

"I'm with you there." Lestrade lifted a hand to scratch beneath the neck of his tunic, easing the red linen aside. "Has, ah... has Anthea asked you for a fortnight off in February?"

Mycroft scanned through the low priority contents of his brain, while struggling to keep his gaze off Lestrade's magnificent neck. 

"Ah—yes, I believe so," he said, frowning. "I'm not yet certain if I'll be able to honour the request, though. We have an international conference in early March. Preparation might have to take precedence."

Lestrade pulled at his lip. 

"Grant it, will you?" he said. He held Mycroft's gaze, rolling words through his mouth. "Sally wants to ask your Anthea something," he added, raising an eyebrow. "Somewhere on a beach with a nice cocktail. She doesn't dare book any flights until she knows they'll both make it."

Mycroft's mouth opened. 

"Oh!" he said, startled. "Oh, I... I hadn't realised. I see." 

_ That seems rather soon. Then... I'm hardly qualified to assess the progress of romantic affairs...  _

"Well—yes, alright," he said. "I'm sure I can bring some of the preparation for the conference forward, so that they can—" Realising he was starting to blush, Mycroft cleared his throat. "Consider it done."

Lestrade's eyes sparkled. "Don't say a word, will you?"

"Lord, no," Mycroft said. "Not a sound. I promise you."

"Thanks." Lestrade smiled, glancing down as he rubbed his sandal against the curve of his other calf muscle. "I owe you one, Mycroft. Much appreciated."

_ One what?  _ "Inspector, I..." As Lestrade's eyes flicked back into his own, amused, Mycroft felt his heart give a small and skitterish squeak.  _ "Chief _ inspector— _ Greg,  _ I mean to say—considering the magnitude of the debt which  _ I _ owe to  _ you, _ this seems a very minor favour. Appreciation is unrequired."

Greg pulled a face, fond and dismissive. 

"You know I never minded helping out with Sherlock," he said. "He doesn't need that much help, most of the time..." He smiled, still looking into Mycroft's eyes. Seven years of hospital bedsides, late-night emails and cautious hope seem to pull between them. "A nudge now and then to get him back on the road, maybe. Things to occupy his head. A feeling like he's worth something to the world. Giving that to someone shouldn't be enough to mount up a debt."

Mycroft scoffed. 

"You undervalue what you've done for my brother," he said. "Greatly undervalue. And for my peace of mind, too. I'm afraid I shan't hear otherwise."

Greg's eyes crinkled at the edges, visibly restraining his smile. "First time I've been over-ruled in this office," he remarked. 

_ A pleasure,  _ Mycroft thought,  _ and an honour.  _

"As I'm not part of your organisation," he said, retrieving his plastic cup of wine from beside Greg's spider plant, "I don't think it counts against you. Your record remains unblemished—Greg."

Lestrade grinned, itching the side of his neck again. He watched Mycroft take a drink.

"Shall we maybe head back to the party?" he suggested. "Otherwise they'll start wondering what we're up to."

_ Let them wonder,  _ Mycroft thought.  _ Please. Let them be correct.  _

"Mm," his mouth said, against his will. "Yes, I think that might be wise."

*

Mycroft couldn't recall the last evening he'd spent at a party. He'd attended plenty of functions over the years, along with a great many dinners and the occasional ball—but he was struggling to recall anything that might count as a party.

The lack of structure seemed unsettling at first. He found himself quietly uneasy that Anthea and Sergeant Donovan might choose to wander off at some point, leaving him to loiter pointlessly on his own beside a wall. Luckily, Anthea seemed quite pleased to have the two of them socialising at last. She kept their plastic cups topped up with wine, and paper plates of small food in their hands, raising new conversation topics with all the ease of an experienced ambassadorial spouse. Sergeant Donovan transpired to be very agreeable to talk to. Mycroft had the impression she was a little relieved; perhaps she'd worried he'd be cut from the same abrasive social cloth as Sherlock. As it was, they found plenty to discuss between them, elegantly facilitated by Anthea, and the evening began to pass most comfortably.

Other members of Scotland Yard drifted over to join them from time-to-time, excited to be introduced to  _ 'the famous Anthea'. _ Mycroft found it curiously warming to witness. Sergeant Donovan grinned as each new colleague came over to take a peek at her partner, her arm gathered fondly around Anthea's waist.  _ Bagged by a posh girl, indeed.  _ Anthea seemed all too pleased to have been bagged.

During a casual trip to the drinks table, Mycroft authorised her annual leave on his phone. There would presumably be a wedding to accommodate in the near future. A honeymoon, too.

_ We will accommodate it,  _ he thought to himself, as he updated their shared calendar and retrieved another plastic cup of wine.  _ Heaven knows she's proven her worth by now. _

He was drinking rather more than he might normally at a social occasion. From the taste of it, some wise soul at Scotland Yard had opted for a vintage they could all safely swig by the litre. It was hard to tell which guests were genuinely intoxicated and which were merely excited. There was an energy to the place, a colourful sort of festivity, one Mycroft had rarely experienced before. Scotland Yard were very good at being jubilant; it suited them.

After an hour, he realised he was actually very much enjoying himself.

The wine had left him feeling eased and honest enough to admit, if only in the privacy of his own mind, that it  _ might _ have something to do with Lestrade.

As a senior officer, it was quite proper that Lestrade had to circulate. He kept coming over to check on them though, often for ten or twenty minutes at a time. When he did, he talked as much to Mycroft as to Anthea or his sergeant—perhaps to Mycroft even more. The sight of him striding back towards their group, with his easy grin and his leather armour, never failed to squeeze Mycroft's innards into one delighted bunch. He couldn't help but match that brimming smile. It was infectious.

Lestrade kept bringing him more wine. He'd often appear with two tiny cupcakes from the buffet table, sneak one into Mycroft's hand and pop the other slyly into his mouth, joining the group's wider conversation as if nothing had happened.

Mycroft was resisting the urge to speak to Anthea discreetly, and ask her what it meant when a man kept bringing you cupcakes.

As the evening wore on, he wanted to ask what it meant when a man kept leaning close in order to murmur some little joke to you; what it meant when a man kept teasing you about your collarbones, grinning; what it meant when he finally stopped circulating altogether, took the chair beside yours and rested his chin on one hand to watch you talk, laughing at every pitiful witticism you made.

Sadly by that point, Anthea and Sergeant Donovan had made themselves curiously scarce.

"I do wonder where they've gotten to," Mycroft said, taking a drink of wine. He couldn't remember how many cups he'd actually emptied now.  _ Several  _ was his brain's best estimate. "Does Sergeant Donovan smoke?"

Lestrade grinned, lowering his gaze slyly into his cup. "I, ah... I don't think they're outside."

"Oh?"

"Nah. If I was a betting man, I'd put next month's salary on 'in a stationery cupboard somewhere'."

"Oh!" Mycroft said aloud, startled. He felt the colour rise in his cheeks. "Oh, well... yes, I..."

"They're probably not the only ones by this point, either." Lestrade drained the contents of his cup in one swig. "I changed the code on the evidence locker just before I got changed," he said. "Have to do it every year. If people want to have some fun up against a paper shelf, that's one thing. If they start contaminating vital evidence, that's another."

_ Lord.  _ The thought of being pressed up against a paper shelf flashed irresistibly through Mycroft's mind—stubble against the side of his neck, warm hands beneath his clothing—that soft and low London accent, murmuring his name as he moaned.

Hastily swallowing the thought, Mycroft washed it down with a drink of wine.

"Did you say you've got work you need to finish?" Lestrade then asked, and Mycroft looked up, his pulse fluttering. "It's not quite eleven yet, but... well, you're looking a bit rosy-cheeked. I don't want to get you in trouble."

Mycroft hesitated. He couldn't deny he was feeling the alcohol. He'd been aware for some time of its warmth sneaking through his blood, heightening the sensation of his clothing against his skin. He'd certainly been happy to put the thought of work from his mind.

"It's not a particularly involved task," he said. "A few trivial bits of data to email."  _ But I don't wish to leave you.  _ "I... I suppose I should really..."

"D'you want to use my desk?" Lestrade said. He pressed his cup of wine against his lower lip, keeping hold of Mycroft's gaze. "To send your email, I mean. Get it out the way, then... well, maybe you could stay a bit longer."

_ With you,  _ Mycroft thought, his heart pounding.  _ Looking at me that way.  _ "Are you certain?"

Lestrade's eyes seemed suddenly deep, as welcoming as a warm bath after a long night. He was regarding Mycroft as if he'd made a very different proposition, one more intimate by far. "'Course," he murmured, glancing at Mycroft's lips. "Wouldn't be a problem."

Mycroft's stomach gave a nervous flip. "I don't think it would take more than ten minutes."

"I think that's a plan, then." Lestrade got to his feet with a smile, absently brushing down his armour as he stood. "D'you want another drink? I'll grab us some food for while you're working."

_ You'll stay while I work,  _ Mycroft realised.  _ You'll be there with me. Together. Alone. _

"I... I don't suppose a cup of water would be possible?" he said.

Lestrade's gaze glittered. "Feeling the drink, are you?" he said, and offered out his hands. "Creeps up, doesn't it?"

As their fingers wrapped together, Mycroft's head seemed to whirl. He didn't believe it was wholly due to alcohol. He stood up slowly, letting Lestrade lift him, then took a moment to ensure his balance seemed alright.

Lestrade smiled, his black eyes bright.

Gently he let go of Mycroft's hands.

"There you go," he murmured, passing his touch up Mycroft's arm—fond, friendly. Lingering. "I'll fetch you water," he said. "See you there."

As he walked away, Mycroft watched him go.

With every step, he became more and more aware of the lump now lodged in his throat. 

_ I want you,  _ he thought, and it felt like watching a dam burst in slow motion. His heart caved under the rush of it. It left him aching from the soul. Lestrade— _ Greg, _ strode as confidently as if he spent every day of his life in leather armour. He seemed so natural and wonderful. People turned simply to smile at him as he passed. He greeted them all as warmly as if they were family.

Mycroft's heart twisted, watching him stop to hug a young woman dressed as a witch, making some admiring comment about her purple hat.

_ I want you to be mine,  _ he thought.  _ I don't want you to belong to someone else. Not anymore.  _ Lestrade passed out of sight amongst the crowd, gone. Mycroft's fingers gathered tightly into his palms.  _ If only you'd have me. _

As he stood alone outside the office, he found himself suddenly and unsettlingly sober. It felt like walking out of a warm building into the night air. Everything seemed sharper, clearer. 

He wished he knew where Anthea was. 

_ I want to kiss Lestrade,  _ he would tell her.  _ I want to make a fool of myself. This is entirely your fault. _

It had all been so easy when the hideous wife was around. She'd made the most reassuringly convenient cap on Mycroft's emotions. Regardless of what he may or may not have experienced upon first sight of Lestrade, and no matter the biochemical lurch that struck his heart every time they met eyes, Mycroft's pride and dignity had not permited him to nurture some giddy crush upon a married man. Conducting himself impeccably in Lestrade's presence, he'd trained himself to think impeccably too. He'd kept his mind clean. He'd locked his sentimental fancies away behind iron bars of propriety. There was some queer comfort in being able to achieve that. It left him feeling safe, if nothing else.

He could still remember the flush of panic, hearing Sherlock mention so casually that Lestrade had separated from his unfaithful wife. 

After that, every small scrap of news had felt monumental.  _ 'Lestrade has found a flat'. 'Lestrade has initiated divorced proceedings'. _ They were always so casually delivered, but felt as enormous as major battles in a history book. Mycroft had been crushed up against a safety barrier for five long and lonely years. Feeling it crumble was like feeling the world fall apart.

And now Lestrade was dating again. Connecting with people.

_ And I want it to be me,  _ Mycroft thought, swallowing, as he glanced through the glass door into Lestrade's darkened office.  _ Oh, god. I'd like it to be me. _

He didn't have the slightest idea how to care for a lover. He only knew how to assure compliance from other people, not how to make them happy. At university he'd engaged in some youthful exploration of what two human bodies could achieve together, invariably to disappointing results, and he'd revisited the experiment on a few uninspiring occasions since—but it hardly qualified him to make a claim for a man like Greg Lestrade.

_ And yet... and yet you look at me as if I...  _

Mycroft gripped his own hands, drawing in a breath. 

_ This is needless conjecture, _ he thought.  _ Arrogant. Unnecessary. _ He wasn't sure how he even had the gall to stand here, fussing and fretting over something with no guarantee of happening. He thought of the young woman in the witch outfit, beaming and clinging to Lestrade's shoulders as he hugged her fondly around the middle, and let the rush of desperate jealousy and distress mortify him back into sense. 

_ He is friendly towards everyone,  _ he told himself firmly, as his heart thumped and thudded in the silence.  _ And far more friendly towards others than to me. _

Anthea's disappearance to a cupboard with Sergeant Donovan was nothing but a good thing.

It meant she couldn't encourage him any further into ridiculous notions.


	3. Security Features

As Greg filled a plate with food for two from the buffet, he realised he was doing it on auto-pilot: two of these, two of that, three of those because Mycroft seemed to like them. He could hardly see what he was choosing. It all blurred before his gaze, drowned out by the memory of a far better sight. The feeling of Mycroft's hands wrapped briefly around his own still had his heart banging up against his ribs. 

He almost couldn't believe Mycroft had come. 

He'd have picked a better costume if he'd known. Something more attractive than a daft Roman in a silly helmet. Rob had offered him a pirate captain; cutlass, compass, the works. 

_ Christ almighty, why didn't I go for pirate?  _ Greg inhaled as he added two marshmallow ghosts to their plate, shaking his head at himself.  _ Too late, now... now he's seen me wandering around in a skirt... _

If he'd learned anything over the past seven years, it was that opportunities to impress Mycroft Holmes didn't come along all that often. This was the first proper time since the divorce. That meant it was the first time when impressing Mycroft Holmes could actually go somewhere. Greg had always liked Mycroft, liked his suits and his ties and the hidden depths beneath them. Until recently, the only outlet for it had been quietly guilty thoughts in the back of his mind:  _ if I wasn't already married,  _ or  _ back when I was young; _ the occasional nervous fantasy when he and Angie were in a rough patch and he wanted to feel free. 

Over the past eighteen months, the nervous fantasies had become a lot less nervous. 

It was a little weird to think about it, standing here at a work party. Looking after himself at night to thoughts of posh boys like Mycroft Holmes had guided Greg to a place he could finally say with a shrug,  _ I'm bisexual.  _ He'd happily flittered between pretty men and pretty women when he was young, never really needing a word for it, then dismissed it all at the altar as just carefree experimentation. It hadn't seemed to matter when he was miserably married to a woman. Now he'd joined the Scotland Yard LGBT Support Union. He'd even had a vague go with Grindr, which had led to nothing but the realisation that a lot of other men were a bit too fond of their own dicks. A friend had been teasing that she'd take him for a night out in Soho sometime, try and find him someone there. Greg had a suspicion he'd arrive to find a lot of flittery young men, like he'd been twenty years ago. 

He wasn't sure he was looking for flittery.

He kinda wanted posh and clever.

He did  _ want _ fun. He wanted sex, warm hands on his body, male scent left on his skin, male sounds of enjoyment in his ear. He'd spent his entire marriage with half his soul boxed up in the attic out of reach, so buried under the debris of daily life that he'd forgotten it was there. Now he wanted to make that part of himself feel alive. He wanted to play and rediscover. It felt a bit tragic, but he wanted to make love—with someone who found him attractive.

He just wanted a text the day after, too. 

As he watched his own hands fill the last space on their plate with three cupcakes, Greg realised they were shaking slightly. 

_ We're friends,  _ he said to the vision of Mycroft in his mind.  _ Aren't we? Known each other seven years. You're a professional man. Discreet. Maybe you'd... maybe you don't do love, but... would you mind if I did? If you got regular sex out of it?  _

He didn't know if Mycroft even did sex. Sherlock didn't. Mycroft seemed a little more inclined to worldly pleasures, though. He liked food that he shouldn't, and comfortable surroundings, and pretty high-end cars with proper leather seats. 

_ Even if you just let me go down on you,  _ Greg thought, and experienced such a wild rush of heat across his cheeks that he had to take a drink of wine just to settle.  _ God, if... if you just let me get you off, just once... Christ, I want to be with you. I want to be in bed with you, moving with you. I want to hear you in my ear as you come. _

"All for you?" came a fond voice behind Greg, and he jumped. 

Quick as a cat, Anthea put out a hand to catch the chocolate-coated cherry which tippled off his plate. She tossed it into her mouth with a smile. 

"Moreish, aren't they?" she said.

Greg smiled, strangely relieved by the sight of her. "Escaped custody, have you?"

She chuckled in the back of her throat. "My police escort has slipped off for a cigarette," she said, leaning against the buffet. "Dreadful habit. I'm working on it. And you? That looks rather like a plate for two."

"Ah—yeah, just stocking up. Your boss needs to send a couple of emails before midnight. M'gonna let him use my office."

"And snack while you keep an eye on him?" Anthea said, winking. "Sensible."

Greg grinned, a little nervous, and replaced the chocolate cherry that she'd nicked. Mycroft liked them. "Keep me quiet, more like," he said. "I imagine he's not the type to chat while he works."

Anthea hummed. 

"You'd be surprised," she said. "He's rather amiable, once you get past the in-built security features. When it suits him, he'll put work tasks off for days on end. It usually happens when he has his eye on something more interesting."

Greg felt his heart bubble strangely. 

"Yeah?" he said, trying to appear casual. He collected a few more cheesy spiders from the buffet, just to occupy his hands. "Why, what's he got his eye on now?"

Anthea said nothing. She simply smiled, raising a single eyebrow, and the silence lengthened.

Greg swallowed, hard. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand. "What's that look for?" he asked.

"I think he's enjoying the chance to socialise with you," Anthea replied, mildly. "One hates to gossip, but... he's always had a great deal of respect."

_ Christ.  _ "For—for me?"

"Mm. We don't meet many honest people in our line of work. I imagine you're a breath of fresh air for him."

_ Not all I want to be.  _ "Nice to know," Greg managed, putting on another smile. His heart felt like it was speeding away without him, too fast to ever keep up. "I, erm... I'm enjoying chatting to him too, for what it's worth. If he asks."  _ Jesus.  _ "Not that he'll..."

Anthea bit her lip. "You'd be surprised," she said again.

For a moment, Greg couldn't speak. He simply looked at her, trying not to read what was written in her expression—that look of almost fond, conspiratorial reassurance.  _ What do you know?  _ he thought, desperate to ask. His mouth felt suddenly dry.  _ What's he said about me? _

She stole another chocolate cherry from his plate, her smile as soft as if he'd said the words aloud.

"He thinks you wouldn't have him," she murmured, placing the cherry in her mouth. Greg's heart clenched. "He won't make a first move. Too accustomed to gazing from afar. Trumpets will sound before he summons the nerve. If you want him, Lestrade... and rest assured, he'd take  _ exceedingly _ good care of you... then I'm afraid you'll have to take matters into your own hands."

She smiled, slipped away from the table and strolled off towards the stairs as if she'd said nothing of importance—as if she'd not just blown his world into pieces.

Greg stared after her, overwhelmed, until she vanished. His heart and his brain both seemed to pulse in time to the music. Prickles of cold and heat swept the length of his back, tickling and whispering, telling him she wouldn't lie. She wouldn't make that up just to mess with him. Sally would kill her; she wouldn't play games

He felt his throat pull tight.

He grabbed for another cup of wine.

*

As Greg let himself through into the side corridor, Mycroft was waiting by the office. He smiled at Greg, a little warily, and eyed the pile of food.

"Rather generous," he said as Greg reached him. "Is this to soak up all the alcohol?"

Greg wasn't sure how he could summon the power to speak. Somehow, he managed. "Nothing sobers a man up faster than cheesy spiders," he said, even as his pulse kicked and reeled.  _ I want to kiss you. I want to take you somewhere, look after you. I want to be with you.  _ In the absence of commands from his brain, his mouth continued to joke. "I don't want you firing off drunken emails to everyone in your address book."

Mycroft laughed: a startled little huff, his eyes bright. "One shudders to think," he said. 

Greg gently passed him their plate and the cup of water, then reached beneath the neck of his costume for the key.  _ Christ—should I wait, though? I can't make a move on you while dressed as a frigging Roman. You'll laugh me out of London.  _

"I appreciate this," Mycroft said, as he unlocked the door. "It's... good of you, Greg. Thank you."

_ Greg.  _

_ God, at last. Greg.  _

_ God help me. _

"No worries." Greg nudged the door open, then flicked on the light. "Get comfy at my desk," he said, holding the door, and Mycroft carried their food inside with care. "Shift things out of the way if you need. I'll grab your laptop for you."

When Mycroft had settled down to work, typing quietly in the glow of his screen, Greg pulled off his helmet and left it on top of the safe.  _ Bit less daft-looking, at least,  _ he thought, his pulse quick and heavy. He pulled his spare chair over to the corner of the desk, where he could reach their plate of food but not intrude on Mycroft's work. He fished his phone from inside the safe; checking his e-mails felt strangely soothing, a quiet dose of familarity.  _ I can do this,  _ he told himself. _ I can handle it. Sweet-talked anybody who looked my way when I was twenty. I can manage just one more. _

Mycroft barely moved as he worked, absorbed in his reading, stirring only to take chocolate cherries from the plate. He seemed to do it without thinking. It squeezed Greg's heart out of shape to realise: Mycroft Holmes was an unconscious snacker. Perhaps he'd come over and watch films in an evening, settled against Greg's shoulder while they worked their way through a bag of Revels together.  _ I could cook for you,  _ Greg thought, his soul straining.  _ Try baking again. Coffee cake or something. Been years. _

_ Jesus, what do I say? How do I bloody tell you? _

As Mycroft reached absently towards the plate, and discovered that he'd reached the last chocolate cherry, awkwardness flickered across his face. He glanced up at Greg, apologetic.

"Do you want—?" he offered. "I'm afraid I've rather gone through them."

Greg smiled, his chest aching.  _ I'd watch you eat those for days on end,  _ he thought. _ Weeks. _ "Go on," he said. "M'fine over here with my cheesy spiders."

Mycroft's mouth pulled with humour. "Are they sobering you?" he asked.

"Let me grab some chalk. We'll draw a line on the floor and find out."

"I thought police used more quantifiable methods these days," Mycroft said, his eyes glittering. "Or is that only when assessing fitness to drive?"

Greg grinned. "I'm getting a taxi," he said. "So long as I'm sober enough to ring for one, I'll be fine."

As Mycroft glanced back towards his screen, idly picking up a raspberry cheesecake bite, he said, "My driver could give you a lift, if you wish."

"Really?"

"Mm, it wouldn't be a problem."

"Wow—sure, thanks. That's kind of you."

"Not at all," Mycroft said, smiling a little, and finished off his tiny piece of cheesecake. As he licked a smudge of raspberry sauce from the underside of his thumb, Greg quietly recrossed his legs beneath his skirt. "I'm sorry this is taking longer than I intended. The data I need has been categorised by month, rather than year."

"Take your time. M'perfectly happy here." Greg tried a smile, just enjoying the sight of him busy. "Nice to get out of my helmet for a while."

Mycroft huffed his soft, dry laugh again. "It must be rather heavy, all the armour?"

"Christ, you've no idea. I don't know how they managed it." Greg reached for another cheesy spider. "Last year's wasn't nearly this heavy."

"Dare I ask what was last year?"

"Highwayman," Greg said. "Eighteenth century. You know, with all the..." He indicated the ruffles he'd worn at his throat, and popped the cheesy spider into his mouth. "The boots were fun. The hat, too. It was actually kinda cool, as fancy dress costumes go. Bit more dashing than this one."

Mycroft seemed lost in his work for a moment, clicking through the spreadsheet. "That sounds very impressive," he said at last. "A pity I missed it."

Greg laughed. He couldn't help it. "If you want a giggle that badly, Mycroft, I'll send you a photo."

Mycroft visibly fought a smile. "I look forward to it."

"D'you want a cheesy spider? They're becoming endangered over here."

Amused, Mycroft leaned over and took the edge of the plate between forefinger and thumb, revolving it until the spiders were out of harm's way. He chose one and placed it in his mouth, crunching it absently as he typed.

Greg peeled the wrapper off a cupcake, and they settled into quiet. 

As the minutes passed, the steady click of keys became oddly comforting.  _ Not a big deal,  _ Greg kept telling himself, snacking to stay calm.  _ Just see if he fancies a drink some time. That's all. M'not asking him to marry me.  _ It didn't matter if Anthea was wrong. It didn't matter if Mycroft said no.  _ Everyone likes being asked out, don't they? Everyone wants to know they've still got it. It's not a big deal. _

As Mycroft finally levered the lid of his laptop shut, Greg felt his stomach contract.

"All done?" he asked Mycroft, smiling.

Mycroft reached for the case he'd left on the floor. "All done," he sighed, and slid the laptop inside it. "Thank you for letting me use your desk. I'm very grateful."

"Don't mention it. Want your laptop back in the safe?"

"If you don't mind. I, ah... can't be too careful."

Smiling, Greg reached over the desk. "Chuck it here." 

As he transferred it with care into the safe, he was half-aware of Mycroft standing up from the desk, sweeping crumbs carefully off its surface. 

"D'you... fancy another drink maybe?" Greg said, to fill the silence. "In here, or... or back out there. Whatever suits. I can top up our plate if you want. Fetch more nibbles."

"Are you this gracious to all your party guests?" Mycroft asked. "I feel rather spoiled."

Greg smiled at the note of teasing in his voice. He closed the door of the safe and input the code, saying, "Only the ones who run the country."

Back on his feet, he turned around and found Mycroft lingering behind him in the office, hands in the pockets of his jacket. He seemed a little nervous again, a little quiet.

At the look on his face, Greg felt his own chest grip. 

_ Might not get a better chance,  _ he realised, and his pulse skittered.  _ Someone else in the car with us, driving home. Might have Anthea here to get her purse later. _

_ Shit. _

He hadn't spoken to Mycroft for months before tonight. It might be months again before the chance came back around—months of awkward dates with strangers, months of waking in the night close to tears with the need for skin. They'd talked more this evening than they ever had. If he let this Mycroft go—the one standing here in front of him, the one with no tie who liked chocolate and cherries—he might never come back.

_ Oh Jesus. It's now. _

Greg took a breath.  _ Survived divorce,  _ he thought.  _ I can survive you turning me down. _

"Hey," he said, and watched something stall in Mycroft's expression. "Listen, I... I might be about to fuck things up here. I'm really sorry, if I do. I mean it. Part of me feels like I should just be happy to have spent some time getting to know you, but... I'd kick myself for weeks, if I didn't say anything."

Mycroft didn't respond, gazing across the office as if he'd seen a ghost. Greg's pulse faltered, realising in sudden panic that if this went badly, he'd be seeing Mycroft here in this office forever—letting Greg down, making some painfully polite excuse—this brand new office, the one he'd chased for twenty years. The paint smell would fade long before this memory. 

But it was too late now. It was happening around him, unfolding by the second.

"Erm," he said, and took a breath, suddenly wishing to god that he'd waited, wishing he hadn't done this dressed as a Roman. "I, erm... I know we've known each other a long time without really knowing each other. And I've really enjoyed tonight. I just wanted to say if you... y'know, wanted to spend some time together. Just the two of us. That'd be... I-I'd be really happy, if..."

Mycroft wasn't moving; he wasn't making a sound. He'd turned as pale as old milk, and Greg felt something twist and then snap inside his chest as he realised this wasn't going well.

"Christ," he whispered, forcing himself to breathe again. "Okay. Y-Yikes. I should've maybe checked that you're not like... not like Sherlock, and if you are—god, it's fine. It's  _ so _ fine. I mean it. Please don't be weird around me. I'm just... s-shit. Sorry. Please forget I started talking."

Mycroft's mouth opened.

It closed again, sealed with an anxious flick of his tongue. 

"I..." He took a shaky breath, searching Greg's face for answers. "By... 'spend time together'..."

"However you want," Greg said, and realised he was shaking. He clamped down on it, willing himself to sound calm. "Whatever's good for... whatever you do. W-With people you like. I don't mind. Whatever you want."

Mycroft's throat muscles worked. 

"Are you—" Visible distress tightened his face. He seemed to have to force himself to speak, mortified by the words. "You're suggesting you'd want to... with  _ me?" _

_ Oh, fuck.  _ Greg couldn't lie. He couldn't sugarcoat this, pretend he just wanted to be friends.

"Yeah," he whispered, feeling the quiet echo around that tiny little word. He couldn't bear it. "Yeah, I... if you want. I like you, Mycroft. I have for... e-erm, a while."

Mycroft blanched. "Oh—god—" 

Greg's heart clenched tight. "I'm sorry—" He kept speaking, kept talking, desperate to make it alright even as his brain shrieked at him to stop. "I'm really sorry. I don't know if you even do stuff like this. If you do, and... and you'd want to do that with me— _ have _ that—with me, then... then I guess I'm right here. And if you don't, then I'm sorry. I'm  _ really _ sorry. Christ, I'm so sorry."

Mycroft looked as if he wanted to run from the office.

"I'm inexperienced in these things," he said. His voice broke. "I-I'd take a great deal of patience. More than I could ask from you."

"A-Are you—Jesus, are you a virgin?"

Mycroft's expression worked. "I might as well be."

"What does... I-I don't—"

"I haven't had a relationship," Mycroft said, flushing desperately—and Greg had never wanted him more. "Not anything with... not anything of meaning." He looked away from Greg, inhaling, and struggled again to speak. "I believe you'd find me naïve and frustrating. I couldn't in any seriousness recommend myself to you."

Greg's heart almost ripped itself from his chest.

"I wouldn't  _ ever _ think that about you," he breathed, shaking. "C-Christ. Not ever. Not for a second. I don't care if you've not been with many people. Honestly, I... I'd kinda love that. Holy shit. That'd be amazing."

Mycroft hesitated, swallowing. He drew himself up, and it seemed such an obvious attempt to comfort himself that Greg's heart ached. 

"What are you suggesting happens now?" he said.

_ God.  _ Greg hadn't thought this far ahead. He'd been unable to see past the moment in which he laid himself at Mycroft's feet. What came after that had felt like light years beyond his reach, and now it was suddenly here. He took a moment just to breathe, to work out what he  _ was _ suggesting.

"If you want to go," he said, "and think things over, then... then that'd be fine. I'd understand. Maybe we could talk in a few days? Have coffee or something?"

Mycroft said nothing for a moment, pale. "And if I didn't wish to leave you?"

_ God. Thank fuck.  _ "We could stay here," Greg said. "I mean... we can sit and talk, or... if you wanted, maybe I'd put my arms around you. Kiss you. Only if you wanted."

Mycroft hesitated. He glanced at the glass door of Greg's office and the long illuminated corridor beyond it, discomfort tightening his features. He said nothing.

"Or we could go somewhere else," Greg said, his heart now beating so hard it nearly hurt. "Somewhere more private, maybe?"

Relief eased some of the nerves in Mycroft's face. "I-I'd perhaps be happier that way."

It was far too late to find a coffee shop. Nearby bars would be packed with drunken revellers in fancy dress. Hardly daring to believe his own nerve, Greg gripped his fingers tight within his palms. 

"How about we go to my flat?" he said. "We'll just sit and talk for a while. Whenever you want to go, you can go."

Mycroft flushed. 

"I'm... not meant to enter unauthorised residences, not without prior..." He breathed in, glancing at Greg with a plea in his eyes. "You'd be very welcome at my home."

_ Jesus. This is actually happening.  _ "I'm happy with that if you are," Greg said. Mycroft gave a single soundless nod. "Okay. A-Alright. Can you, erm... get a car to us? If I quickly get changed?"

Mycroft's flush deepened. He reached inside his jacket for his phone, his fingers visibly shaking. "My laptop—" he said.

"I'll get it for you," Greg promised. "I'll bring it and meet you by the front door downstairs. How's that?"

Mycroft gave another nod. He hesitated, glancing nervously at his phone and then back to Greg's eyes. "We should probably tell Anthea and Sergeant Donovan that we're leaving. I... I-I wouldn't want them to worry."

Greg's stomach squeezed. "We can text when we're in the car," he said. "Here. Let me get your coat for you."


	4. Overnight Guest

The ten minutes Mycroft spent waiting on the ground floor of Scotland Yard were the longest ten minutes of his existence. With each quiet ding of the lift behind him, he almost expected Sherlock to leap out and announce the entire thing had been some hilarious joke, accompanied by a laughing Lestrade.

When Greg finally appeared, he looked quite as relieved to see Mycroft as Mycroft was to see him. He'd now hastily redressed in an untucked workshirt, black trousers and old gym trainers, still sporting his heavy eyeliner with his hair on end and Mycroft's laptop beneath his arm. 

He gave it to Mycroft as soon as they reached each other, then put a hand on Mycroft's elbow.

"Car here?" he asked. Mycroft nodded, unable to speak. "Alright. Let's go."

They hurried out into the night together, unseen by anyone except the bouncer at the door. Mycroft's driver stepped from the car as they both appeared, and held open the backseat for them.

"Home please, Davison," Mycroft said, quickly climbing in beside Greg. "Thank you." 

Davison, well-trained to ask no questions, shut the privacy screen as soon as he'd resumed his seat. The automatic doors locked around them; the car set off with a gentle jolt.

In the darkness, Mycroft dared a quiet glance at Greg.

Greg was watching him closely, protectively almost, waiting for Mycroft's gaze to come his way. When it did, he gave a gentle smile.

Mycroft's heart thudded in response.

"You okay?" Greg murmured, his eyes as dark and soft as anyone had ever looked at Mycroft. His voice had all the warmth of an embrace.

_ Oh, god. _Glancing at his lips, Mycroft felt his breath catch in his throat. "Still rather shocked, but..."

Greg gave a quiet nod, untroubled by this. On the seat between them, he placed his hand with care beside Mycroft's, allowing their little fingers to rest side-by-side. It was the smallest, gentlest amount of contact, cautiously offered, with an unspoken promise it would be withdrawn at the first sign of unease.

Swallowing, Mycroft slid his hand to rest fully on top of Greg's.

Greg's hand upturned. Their fingers wove, meshing together as perfectly as if they'd been made a matching pair.

"Is this alright?" Greg murmured in the darkness, as Mycroft's heart stretched to breaking point. He tightened his grip, so full of joy he couldn't put it into words. _ You'll be in my home, alone with me. There to talk with me. To... to hold me, to kiss me. _

_ Oh, god. _

"As soon as you want rid of me," Greg said, softly, his gaze still gentle on Mycroft's face, "and you want some space, just tell me. I won't mind. I'll understand, I promise you."

Mycroft squeezed his hand, drawing comfort and courage from the warmth of his grip. He couldn't quite meet Greg's eyes to say this. He said it nonetheless.

"I... doubt that I'll want you to go."

After a moment, Greg's fingers stirred. "No?" he said, easing his grip to brush his thumb across the sensitive skin inside Mycroft's wrist—stroking, circling. Shivers ran like lightning up Mycroft's back; he bit down into his lip, barely able to stay still. "That's alright, too. Whatever you want."

_ What would your touch feel like elsewhere? _

"I've admired you for a long time," Mycroft said, suddenly dizzy with his own daring. He looked across into Greg's eyes and found them watching him, dark with kohl and the shadows cast by the moving car. Their intensity nearly took his breath. "I... I really am very taken with you, Greg."

Greg wet his lips, quietly. His gaze seemed to flicker to Mycroft's mouth.

"Would it be alright if I kissed you?" he murmured.

_ God help me. _Mycroft couldn't stay at a distance from him any longer. He suddenly couldn't bear the gap between them. Shaking, he let go of Greg's hand and shifted forward into the space it had occupied, breathing in as Greg's arms opened to him. They wrapped around him, tight; they pulled him close.

As their lips met, Greg's fingers stroked through Mycroft's hair.

He kissed so gently Mycroft almost couldn't bear it, brushing with his lips as lightly as if afraid Mycroft might shatter. Mycroft's frustration escaped him as a whimper, begging without words for something more substantial. Greg's arms tightened; he cupped the back of Mycroft's neck, pulling him closer still, almost into his lap, and they shuddered together as their mouths slowly sealed. Greg's fingers scrunched in his hair. Mycroft gasped at the sensation, the sound lost within the kiss, stolen by the coaxing sweep of Greg's tongue. _ Oh. Oh, god damn it. More. _He shivered, climbed fully into Greg's lap and took his beautiful bloody jaw in both hands, his palms burning as he stroked the stubble he'd longed to touch for seven years, kissing him as if he'd never get a second chance. Greg's mouth was a bath of liquid heat, so soft and so pleasing to search that tingles ruptured over Mycroft's back in waves, every hair risen onto end by the grasping of Greg's hands beneath his coat. It made him feel drunken and wanted and safe; he'd never craved someone's skin so much in all his life.

As they drove, the gentle jolting of the car let them breathe, their lips gasping briefly apart each time. Their arms stayed anchored around each other, hands bunched tight in each other's clothing and hair. _ Seven years, _ Mycroft thought, nearly delirious with it, as he drank each perfect shiver he was causing. _ Seven years, I've wanted to show you. _Every bump in the road hitched him a little in Greg's lap, nudging their bodies together. The hardening bulge he could feel pressed between his legs grew more prominent each time. Shaking, overwhelmed by the feeling of Greg's tongue inside his mouth, Mycroft took to grinding gently downwards after each bump. On the first, Greg gasped and clung onto him hard, fingers digging into his waist beneath his coat. The second earned him an almost panicked little moan of enjoyment, quickly swallowed, and a restless twitch of Greg's hips.

On the third, Greg's nervous hands tightened to pull him down. His hips lifted as much as they could beneath Mycroft's weight, pushing back in search of friction.

Shivering, Mycroft opened his eyes. He found Greg gazing at him, lost, his pupils indiscernibly huge in the darkness. Their lips remained one breath apart; his hands stayed curled at Mycroft's hips.

Mycroft pressed his teeth into his own lower lip, held Greg's gaze, and slowly began to rock his hips.

Desperation flooded Greg's face.

"Fuck—" he whimpered, stiffening, and Mycroft felt his every nerve ignite in a blaze of excitement. He'd never heard something so wonderful come from a human being's mouth. "Oh—s-shit—" Greg's hands twitched at his hips, nervously pulling down, pleading without sound for more. "Oh, Jesus—" 

Mycroft watched, overcome with love, as his continued gentle rocking caused tightening waves of excitement to shiver through Greg's expression. Greg looked as affected as if they were in bed, making love; as if he needed nothing more than to feel this just a little longer. He only took his eyes from Mycroft's when they closed with irrepressible enjoyment, sinking his teeth into his lip, visibly fighting the need to moan.

"Y-You are beautiful," Mycroft heard himself breathe, his voice broken. Greg's eyes snapped open, reaching for him. "Utterly beautiful."

"Oh, Christ—" Greg fought to swallow, shaking as he tried to ease the rhythm of Mycroft's hips with his hands. "E-Easy... please—o-or—"

_ You're close. _

_ Close to coming. _

_ Right here in the back of my car, fully clothed, because I rocked upon your lap a little while. _

Trembling, Mycroft passed his fingertips along the curve of Greg's cheek. He cupped his stubbled jaw, stroked a thumb across his pinkened lower lip, and let the memory of this sight settle into his mind forever. He never wanted it to fade; he never wanted to forget a single detail.

Greg watched him almost fearfully, his dark eyes huge, panting gently against his mouth.

"I'm a bit crazy about you," Greg whispered, and Mycroft felt his heart thump. No-one had ever been _ crazy _for him. "And I'm... i-it's been a while. Like this, I mean. K-Kinda wound up."

Mycroft exhaled, biting his lip. _ Then none of them got their hands on you, _ he thought. _ None of them misused you. _It caused him more relief than might be proper, the thought that his Greg hadn't been defiled by some ogre from Grindr. By some miracle, the universe had kept him safe for Mycroft.

He gently kissed Greg's lips in a quiet promise. _ I shan't wind you any tighter. Not until I have you somewhere comfortable and warm. _Greg stirred, kissing him back with a soft, small sound.

"I feel much the same," Mycroft murmured, and stroked Greg's cheek with the backs of his fingers, addicted already to the sight of his own hand gently touching Greg's stubble. Greg gazed up at him, his eyes round. "I'm not sure I recall the last time I engaged in... physicality. I certainly don't recall wanting it this much."

A shy grin widened Greg's mouth. "Worried you were above all this," he confessed. "Worried you... I don't know. Like Sherlock."

Mycroft hummed. "I'm not opposed to intimacy," he said. "Merely very selective." He smiled a little, watching Greg's eyes brighten in immediate response. "And... rather underskilled, I fear."

"S'not about skill," Greg whispered, leaning up to brush his lips against Mycroft's. Mycroft's eyes fluttered shut with the rush it caused. "It's connection," Greg said against his mouth, broad hands sliding slowly up Mycroft's back, and Mycroft wondered if it were possible to pass out with sheer joy. "If the person's right, and makes you feel safe to learn, it's all instinct and it's easy. I'll take care of you, darlin'. I promise."

_ Dear lord. 'Darlin''. _

"Tonight?" Mycroft said, quietly.

Hesitation flickered over Greg's expression. "Only if you want that," he murmured, watching Mycroft with care. "We can wait, if it's too soon."

_ You sweet, perfect man. _"And if I'd like to wake up beside you?" Mycroft said.

Greg said nothing; he looked as if he didn't quite dare, his lips just a little parted. 

Mycroft kissed them, slowly. He felt them soften against his own, longing for every whisper of physical affection he cared to give. _ How long have you wanted me to kiss you this way? How long have you hoped to have the chance? _He stroked both his hands over the stubbled glory of Greg's jaw, cradling it carefully as they kissed.

When their lips came apart, he left their noses touching.

"I'd like to spend the night together," he said. "Doing whatever that would normally entail. Then I'd like to spend more time, after that. Coffee, perhaps. Maybe you'd come with me to dinner." Greg's hands tightened quietly on his back, wrapping their way all around him. "Even if that dinner involves only a paper plate of crispy spiders," he added, prompting a burst of laughter against his lips. "I'd be delighted to have your company, nonetheless."

_ "Cheesy _ spiders—"

"The nature of the spiders is immaterial."

"Not those chocolate cherries?" Greg said, grinning as Mycroft dotted his lips with small kisses. They were simply too lovely not to kiss.

"Mm," Mycroft hummed. "Well, if you happened to perform some discreet research for me, and find out from which supermarket those were sourced, I'd be grateful for your efforts."

Greg laughed again. The entire car seemed to fill with it, brighter than any light. "When's your birthday?" he asked.

Mycroft smirked. _ Wicked man. _"Late December."

"Good," said Greg. "Time to stockpile."

*

When they arrived at the house, they were forced to let go of each other until Davison had departed with the car. Mycroft was unsurprised to find his fingertips shaking a little on the security panel beside the door; he had to enter the code twice, a clumsy error he'd never previously committed.

Inside, as Greg gazed around at the ornate staircase and the oil paintings of Holmeses long past, Mycroft relocked the door and armed the rest of the house for the night. The cameras had clearly noted the presence of two moving figures in the hallway, not the habitual one. Perhaps in combination with his code error, it prompted a discreet security check to appear onscreen, asking Mycroft if he also wished to arm the garage. It was an ingenuine query. Mycroft tapped _yes _and entered a brief passcode, informing the system that he was quite safe, that the second figure was a guest and not a threat to him, and that there was no reason to send immediate assistance. A live-feed of the surveillance cameras would have been sent to a security professional nonetheless; only certain areas of the house were kept private. 

Unwilling to share even a minute of this night with anyone else, Mycroft reached at once for Greg's hand.

"It's rather more welcoming in the daylight," he promised, leading his guest towards the stairs. Greg smiled and followed, all too happy to be guided. "I'll give you the tour in the morning."

"Surprised you've not got a gift shop selling guidebooks and keyrings," Greg said, amused. The eyeliner made him almost deliciously mischievous-looking. "How old is this place?"

"Far too old," Mycroft said. "Weep for my utility bills—in the morning."

He managed to wait to kiss Greg until the bedroom door had safely closed behind them, shutting out the cameras for the night. Greg pulled him close at once, shivering, and with a few stumbled steps they ended up against the door together, kissing desperately, searching underneath each other's coats with their hands. Weak with excitement, Mycroft raked his fingers through Greg's stubble; Greg moaned softly into his mouth, pressing him up against the flat expanse of wood.

"I-I, erm... I might need a shower," Greg warned, panting, as Mycroft began to divest him of his coat. "Had a long day."

_ What a wonderful idea. _"I'll keep you company," Mycroft breathed, and Greg seized his mouth again, shivering. 

They kissed against the door until two coats, a red silk tie and a suit jacket were pooled around their feet. As Greg began to work open the buttons of Mycroft's waistcoat, kissing and sucking and gently biting into his neck, Mycroft tightened his grip on Greg's back and panted out a plea.

"Greg—" he gasped. The thick rub of Greg's cock against his own was devilishly good, not quite satisfying enough through fabric to sate him, merely a promise of pleasure for now. "Perhaps—the bathroom—"

"Which door is it?"

"By the window."

Greg took his hand at once, wrapping their fingers. "C'mon," he said, pulling Mycroft with him, and they stumbled around the bed. Even the thought had Mycroft aching; _ the two of us there, together, soon. _"Let's get cleaned up, gorgeous."

As the shower heated, filling the room slowly with soft clouds of steam, they stripped each other slowly on the tiles. Every button gave Mycroft more skin to stroke and kiss, more soft little places to explore with his fingertips and his nose and his mouth, overwhelmed with delight as Greg moaned and shivered beneath his touches. They left clothing where it fell, pausing only to move Greg's watch and Mycroft's cufflinks out of harm's way to a shelf, then pulled each other underneath the spray.

In moments, Mycroft's back pressed flat against the bathroom tiles. Their cold sting made him arch and gasp. Greg's mouth caught the sound, a burning kiss to match the burning heat of his body. He slid against Mycroft slowly, pressing, letting Mycroft feel every inch of his wet skin and the slick nudge of his handsome cock, nuzzling with hope against Mycroft's own. 

The sensation took the breath from Mycroft's lungs. He grappled for Greg's shoulders, gripping them hard as Greg began to rock them both together, slow and almost lazy thrusts.

Mycroft's head thumped back against the wall. His eyes rolled as they closed, unable to cope with both sight and sensation in this moment. This felt like nothing should. The wet rub of Greg's skin seemed to have turned his entire body into an erogenous zone, and as Greg's mouth nuzzled slyly into the side of his neck, resuming the gentle sucking and biting from before, Mycroft could only pant his pleasure into the spray. This was exquisite.

He never wanted it to end.

Trembling, he eased a hand between their bodies—reached down, almost shy, and gave Greg the gentle play of his fingers and the flat of his palm to thrust against, moaning as Greg shuddered with enjoyment and bit down into his neck.

"You feel wonderful," Mycroft whispered. He wound his other hand through Greg's hair, his heart heaving. He didn't know how he had the capacity to speak. The words seemed to escape from his mouth; he was helpless to stop them. "Oh, god—y-you feel..." He wrapped his grip around Greg's cock gently, just experimenting, gliding in time up and down. "God almighty... Greg..."

Greg swallowed, hard. His hips bucked into the stroking.

"How could you worry you're no good at this?" he breathed, his voice cracking, and swept a warm wet stripe of tongue behind Mycroft's ear. Mycroft nearly writhed, grasping at his hair. "You're fucking beautiful," Greg husked to him, licking him, and kept on rocking gently through his fingers. "Absolutely beautiful. Don't change a single thing—just touch me, let me touch you. This is all I want in the whole fucking world."

_ Oh, god. _

"Where's your shower gel?" Greg murmured. Trembling, Mycroft managed to reach it and the washcloth, realising in a rush as he handed them over that he'd never shower again without imagining Greg here with him, nuzzling into his neck, spilling pleasure all over his skin. "Can I do the honours?" Greg asked, softly, wetting the cloth beneath the spray.

Overwhelmed, Mycroft nodded.

By the time they switched the water off, Greg almost had to carry him from the shower. His muscles seemed to have melted beneath his skin, too weak from trembling to support his own weight. His cock now ached with an almost painful ferocity; he'd never been brought so close to climax and then denied it. He could barely think any longer. All he wanted was to continue, to have Greg's hands and mouth sliding over his skin again, exploring him as if he were wonderful, teasing his blood back to boiling point.

Greg dried him with the greatest of care; he drank Mycroft's restless whimpers and kisses.

"Soon, darlin'," he breathed, rubbing Mycroft's hair with the towel as he cradled him close to one shoulder. "Soon... just let me finish drying you off, mm? Then we'll go lie down in that nice big bed of yours. See what else I can find."

_ God help me. I won't survive. _ Mycroft reached up to nuzzle at Greg's mouth, fingertips shaking on his chest. The water hadn't taken off Greg's eyeliner, merely blurred it, the effect somehow wildly more beautiful. _ My lover, _Mycroft thought, his heart pounding as Greg slowly kissed him to soothe him, stubble prickling and scraping deliciously beneath his mouth. His face would be raw by the morning. He'd already glimpsed in the mirror above the sink two tiny love bites at his neck, tokens of his lover's adoration. 

He didn't care in the least if they were still there on Monday. 

_ Let them all see, _ he thought, his heart ringing with it. _ Let them wonder. _

In the bedroom, Greg turned out all the lights except the lamp by the bed. He pulled Mycroft beneath the covers with him, smiling, their hair still damp and the light falling softly across their skin. 

"You still okay with all this?" he whispered as he eased on top of Mycroft, reaching for his lips. They kissed, shivering together, settling their skin; Mycroft slipped one ankle happily around Greg's calf. 

"Please don't stop," he said, as they parted. Greg's eyes sparkled above him in the dim light. "If you stop now, I won't ever forgive you. Nothing would be more cruel."

"You're not tired?"

"No. Not in the least. I don't care if we're awake until dawn."

"Promise?" Greg said, leaning down to kiss his mouth, and Mycroft arched up beneath him in longing, pushing their bare bodies together. Greg spoke between kisses, breathing hard. "Don't say that to me unless you mean it—'cause I _ will _keep you awake. I'm not kidding. M'not nearly done with you. I could listen to you moan all night."

_ Sweet Christ. _

"I'm hearing a lot of promises," Mycroft said, breathlessly, and scrunched one hand in Greg's hair, the other splayed tight across his back. "I suggest you stop teasing me and make good on them."

Greg's smile became a grin against his lips.

"As sir commands," he husked, tossed back the covers, and began to kiss his way down. Mycroft arched, his mouth falling open. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

*

_ [23:48] _  
_ NEW MESSAGE FROM _  
_ BETA-0594931-ANTHEA_

_ Good evening. _

_ I just received a security call to check whether I was made aware that my level alpha would have an overnight guest at his residence, given that it is unexpected behaviour for him... to which I replied that the overnight guest in question is entirely expected. _

_ Some might even say long overdue. _

_ I've told them to forward any vital matters to me over the weekend. (I assume you'll be busy.) As a token of your gratitude for services rendered, I would have asked you to authorise my annual leave in February, but I see that it's already been signed off. Thank you. I'll be sure to send a postcard. _

_ One last thing. At one PM tomorrow (I assume you'll be awake) a driver will call at your house. _

_ If you could kindly ask Lestrade to hand over the keys to his office and safe, so I can have my bloody handbag back, that would be marvellous. _

_ Enjoy your weekend. _

_ You are welcome. _

_ A. x _


	5. Stay

_ Gorgeous when you sleep. _

Greg smiled to himself, watching the covers rise gently as Mycroft drew a sleeping breath. Mycroft was gorgeous when awake, of course. But something about the mid-morning sunlight stealing through the curtains made him look like heaven itself had laid him down here. He seemed so much younger, more gentle—more human.

He'd seemed all those things last night as well. 

_ Christ,  _ Greg thought, inhaling at the fresh rush of memory. He pressed his teeth into his lip.  _ Can't believe all that really happened.  _ Even lying here naked, watching Mycroft sleep beside him, it seemed somehow too good to be true. He hadn't let a single inch of Mycroft's body go unkissed. Mycroft hadn't let him either. Greg had never been clung to so tightly—begged so desperately, heard his name moaned in shaking ecstasy like that—and the fact it was Mycroft Holmes, glacial prince of winter, who'd been writhing underneath him at three AM, head thrown back against the pillows and flushed across his face and chest...

_ Now sleeping like a mouse,  _ Greg thought, his heart straining. He wanted to stroke Mycroft's cheek. He didn't want to wake him, though.  _ I'll take care of you. I'll make the world brand new around you, I promise. _

They'd finished on their sides in the middle of the bed, covers kicked off, pillows everywhere, their mouths on each other as they rocked. Greg could almost still feel Mycroft's fingers curled in his hair, the thick nuzzling slide of Mycroft's cock against his tongue. He'd missed going down on someone. He'd missed hearing muffled moans around his cock, someone enjoying looking after him, wanting him to come. He'd missed the feeling of hands at his hips, encouraging him to chase and find what he needed.

They'd come only seconds apart.

Mycroft had made a sound like sobbing as he did, high-pitched and ragged after hours of Greg tormenting him. He'd barely been able to move, after. All he'd wanted was to be cuddled and have his hair stroked.

_ Our first time,  _ Greg thought, his heart pounding. Gently he shifted a little closer across the bed, unable to help himself. He pressed a quiet kiss to Mycroft's temple.  _ First of many. _

_ God, I hope.  _

Mycroft stirred, exhaling slowly in his sleep. With a small hum he leaned into the warmth of Greg's body, then gave a quiet shiver, nuzzling at Greg's neck.

"Greg," he mumbled, and Greg's heart heaved in response. Mycroft slipped an arm around his waist beneath the covers. "Mmhm."

"Hi, darlin'," Greg said, overwhelmed already. He placed another tiny kiss on Mycroft's forehead. "You alright?"

He felt Mycroft's lips curve against his neck. A sly ankle snuck around his own.

"You," Mycroft said softly, nestling closer, "are a wicked man. You did a number of beastly things to me last night. You then did even more of them." He laid his lips against the column of Greg's throat, murmuring. "I hope you're appalled with yourself."

Greg bit down into his grin, stroking his fingers through the back of Mycroft's hair.

"If I remember right," he said, _ "you _ did some beastly things to me, too."

"Mmh? That seems unlike me."

"No, I'm pretty sure. I even got the feeling you quite enjoyed it."

"The audacity," Mycroft hummed, dotting tiny kisses in a line up Greg's jaw. As he reached Greg's ear, he nuzzled against its shell and whispered. "I'm not sure I can permit these kinds of sordid accusations."

A breathless shiver spilled its way down Greg's back, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

"Don't worry, darlin'," he said, as his fingers flexed on Mycroft's waist. Mycroft stirred, arching into the touch. "I won't tell anyone your pretty secrets."

Mycroft hummed. "You never have," he said, laying his cheek against Greg's. Greg felt his heart swell to twice its size. "Pretty or otherwise. You've... been my only rock sometimes, Greg. One I've never had cause to question. I can't tell you what it means to me, holding you like this."

_ Christ.  _ Greg's heart slipped up, filling his throat for a moment. He brushed his nose through Mycroft's hair, and felt it ease back down.

"I..."  _ God, I shouldn't tell you this. I shouldn't tell anyone.  _ "I, erm... f-for you. For a long time. I used to feel guilty about it, but... but I suppose now, all things considered..."

"Thoughts are not actions," Mycroft said, gently. He laid a quiet kiss on the crook of Greg's neck. "No-one has the slightest ground to question your actions. Not for a moment."

Greg let himself breathe, holding onto that.

"I also felt rather guilty," Mycroft said, after a moment's quiet. His arms tightened. "I did my best to... to put it all aside, and speak to you only as one should to a married man. Even when you'd separated, I couldn't bring myself to break the habit. I wanted you to have space and privacy."

Greg didn't dare to breathe.  _ God,  _ he thought, as he pushed his cheek against Mycroft's,  _ please, please let this be something. Let this be my second chance. _

"I thought you'd never look twice at a scruff like me," he whispered.

Mycroft made a quiet sound of distress; it hurt to hear. "If you knew," he said, holding Greg tightly, "what I went through yesterday evening, realising it was you in that...  _ bloody  _ leather armour—god almighty—"

Greg didn't mean to laugh. It snorted out of him before he could help it. He pulled back enough to regard Mycroft with a dubious grin. "Are you kidding?" he said. "That daft Roman get-up?"

"I am  _ not  _ kidding," Mycroft said, hotly. "What you're calling a 'daft Roman get-up' subjected me to a volcanic sexual meltdown, in  _ public,  _ for which you will never be forgiven."

"You  _ are  _ kidding," Greg said, staring at him with a grin. "You've got to be. With the silly sandals and the skirt?"

_ "Yes, _ with the skirt—wretched man—and the eyeliner," Mycroft added, appalled, even as Greg tipped over onto his back and laughed. "You can't expect me to believe for one second that you don't realise how absolutely mouthwatering you looked. Do not attempt to convince me otherwise." 

Smirking, Mycroft shifted on top of Greg, catching hold of his wrists and pinning them up beside his head. Greg could only grin as he mock-struggled, still laughing.

"I want photographs of all previous Scotland Yard functions," Mycroft said.  _ "All _ of them, in the highest quality available, emailed to me before the week is out." 

"Even the highwayman?"

Mycroft groaned.  _ "Gregory—" _

Greg pulled free, grinning. "Who the hell's  _ Gregory?" _

"It is  _ you!" _ Mycroft said, now laughing as well, and recaptured Greg's wrists as he pretended to fight, pinning his hands higher against the pillows. "You,  _ beast _ —and your  _ damn _ leather armour—what other costumes does your brother own? Tell him I want a list."

*

They cooked breakfast together at two in the afternoon, half-dressed and burning the bacon by stopping too often to kiss. Greg couldn't keep his hands to himself. Mycroft's laughter was infectious, the flashing of his eyes too beautiful to stay away. They tried to shower with some hope of getting dressed and going for a walk, but ended up making love again, stroking and palming each other gently beneath the spray as they kissed. Resting in bed afterwards, sated and warm, they fell asleep. 

They woke up wrapped together in half-damp towels and covers, with falling rain and darkness beyond the curtains.

"Are you sure you don't mind me staying another night?" Greg asked, as he opened cartons of Chinese food at the kitchen counter. The small table by the cellar door was set for two: a candle, two glasses, a bottle of wine. 

Mycroft's arms slipped quietly about his middle, hugging him from behind. 

"If you're happy to stay," he said. Greg grinned, dividing noodles carefully between two plates. "You mustn't let me turn this into a hostage situation."

"I think you're confusing a hostage for a squatter, darlin'."

"I think you'll find a squatter enters a property  _ without permission, _ chief inspector," Mycroft said, nuzzling into the back of his neck. "As you've been granted full permission and then bribed with Chinese food in the hope that you'll make yourself comfortable, I'm afraid the term does not apply. The distinction is a subtle one, I'll grant you."

Biting into his grin, Greg set the serving spoon aside and turned around in Mycroft's arms.

"I think  _ you'll  _ find," he said, pulling him closer,  _ "Mr Holmes, _ that arguing the law with an officer of the law rarely ends all that well."

"Well," Mycroft hummed, as their noses nuzzled, "perhaps after dinner, I should make a brief call to my lawyer. I'm sure she'll be happy to rule on whether I'm holding you here against your will."

"If she's any good, Myc, she'll tell you it's not possible to hold a willing man against his will."

"Mm... well, perhaps you make a reasonable point." As Mycroft's lips brushed against Greg's mouth, shivers of happiness tickled like tiny sparks all down his back. His eyes closed; joy swelled inside his chest. "Am I to trust, then, that when the willing hostage is no longer quite as willing—when he very naturally and understandably would like the comfort of his own surroundings for a while, without the slightest need for explanation—he will inform me at his first convenience?"

_ Holy shit. _

_ I'm in love with you. _

_ I'm... I'm actually... _

"Only if you'll inform me," Greg said, as his pulse thundered through his entire body. "As soon you're getting tired of the scruffy policeman kicking around your house. Eating all your food."

"Making love with me," Mycroft added, softly. "Holding me as I sleep."

Greg's throat tightened. He brushed his hands across Mycroft's back, gathering him into a proper cuddle for a moment. Mycroft's chin tucked gently against his shoulder.

They held each other in the quiet, as the rain rattled sleepily on the window.

When Mycroft spoke, it sounded as if he'd never used his voice before.

"If you were here a month from now," he said, barely moving, "I don't think I'd mind in the least."

Greg closed his eyes, fighting back the sudden outbreak of heat. He took a second to be sure his voice wouldn't break.

"Tell me that again a month from now," he said.

Mycroft quietly squeezed him. "Very well."

*

On Sunday morning, Greg awoke to find his naked lover sliding gently on top of him.

"Good morning," Mycroft breathed against his lips, then caught them in a slow and lazy kiss. Their tongues brushed; Greg's heart thumped. As Mycroft settled astride him, thighs spread either side of Greg's hips, Greg felt his cock give a hopeful twitch. "How did you sleep?" Mycroft asked, sitting up and planting both hands on his chest.

Greg let his fingers slide up Mycroft's thighs to his waist. "Think m'still dreaming," he rumbled, biting the corner of his lip. He couldn't keep his inner sigh to himself. "Christ, you're lovely. Just look at you."

Mycroft's eyes glittered. "Must you just look?" 

"Mhmm. Can do a bit more, f'you like." Greg stroked his hands slowly upwards, skimming his splayed fingers over Mycroft's bare chest. Mycroft's lips parted and he arched, reaching for Greg's hands, pulling them restlessly up to his nipples. "Here, mm?" Greg said.

Mycroft twitched with a swallow. "Mm—"

Greg began to circle gently with his thumbs, taking his time. "Right here," he whispered as Mycroft shivered, head falling back. Mycroft's mouth fell open; no sound came out. "There you go, sweetheart... whatever you need. You just show me and I'll take care of it."

Mycroft pulled his lower lip beneath his teeth, his breath hitching. He pushed one of Greg's hands down towards his swollen cock.

"Come for a walk with me later," he said. As Greg's hand wrapped around him, slowly gliding from root to tip, Mycroft's voice cut into a whimper and he stretched. "Oh, god—come for dinner with me—come for coffee. Please."

"All today?" Greg said, with a smile. "Gonna be busy."

"Tomorrow," Mycroft gasped, rutting forwards into his gentle grip. "Or—th-this week—"

Greg's heart ached. Sunday mornings were made to feel like this, he thought; sleepy, soft, close. "Any day you like, love," he murmured, watching pleasure and colour flush across Mycroft's face. "I'll be there. Don't worry."

Mycroft's expression worked. 

"Stay tonight," he said. He looked down into Greg's eyes, and Greg realised with a kick of his pulse it was a plea. This was the closest Mycroft Holmes would ever come to begging. "Stay one more night. Then I shall let you go. I promise."

_ Don't, beautiful. Don't let me go. _

"I'll need some things from my flat," Greg said. "Clean suit for the morning... get my phone charger..."  _ Condoms. Lube.  _ "Could, erm... could your driver run me round there later, maybe?"

Relief softened Mycroft's expression. 

"Of course," he said. "Of course, I... I'll call, after..." He swallowed, blushing harder as he reached down to wrap his shaking fingers over Greg's, tightening his grip. "Please. F-First."

Greg gently slowed his stroke, letting Mycroft set the pace. 

"First things first, sweetheart," he murmured. "We've got all day."

*

At the edge of Mycroft's estate there laid a stretch of quiet woodland, where the muted twinkle of birdsong lent a softness to the air.

"It's rather pleasant in the summer," Mycroft said, with an apologetic glance, as he led Greg through the squeaking gate and into the trees. "Still... fresh air." 

The night's rain hadn't dried yet, even though it was now late afternoon; the copper-red leaves underfoot were still shiny. Everything felt like it was resting, settling. The year was easing gratefully to its end.

Greg smiled, taking hold of Mycroft's hand as they set off along the path.

"It's nice in autumn," he said. Mycroft blushed a little, pleased, and wove their fingers together.  _ First time you've held hands with someone, darlin'? Or just first time with me?  _ "Always thought there's something nice about that bit between summer and Christmas... nothing too much going on. Just let the weeks go by."

"Mm, I quite agree. A chance to hear one's own thoughts for a while."

"Yeah?" Greg smiled, glancing sideways at Mycroft as they strolled. "Why, what're you thinking?"

Mycroft inhaled, with a small and fond shake of his head. "At the moment I can't put it into words," he said. "This kind of happiness is entirely new to me. It... rather feels as if the world has been put on pause for us."

Greg's heart tugged; he understood completely.

"Suppose it owes us some lost time," he said, and watched Mycroft try to suppress the glow in his expression. A small smile broke through all the same, clear as day. "Seven years," Greg went on. "Never alone for more than a minute or two. Never able to really talk. Now..."

"Mm." Mycroft looked across at him, bright-eyed. "If we aren't careful, I fear we might become inseparable."

_ Think we might have made some progress on that one already.  _ Greg squeezed Mycroft's hand, gently. "This feels like a good time of year to... y'know," he said. "Get close with someone. Start something cosy."

"Do you think so?"

"Well, Christmas usually ends up being about family—whether you want it to or not. Summer's often about friends. But autumn... autumn's for being alone with somebody special. Closing the curtains, putting on a film. Going to bed early."

Mycroft cast Greg a sly smile, leaning comfortably into his side. "Is that our itinerary for the afternoon?" he asked, as Greg slipped an arm around his waist. "And in that order, I presume?"

Grinning, Greg kissed the curve of his shoulder. "Yep," he said. "Seeing as I've fetched six separate DVDs from my flat. We might as well make use of them."

"Along with three separate bottles of wine, I noted."

"Don't panic, beautiful. They're not all for tonight."

"Well, thank heavens. Otherwise it might be an even more difficult Monday than I'm anticipating."

Greg nosed at Mycroft's temple. "Difficult?" he checked. "Why difficult?"

With a soundless sigh, Mycroft looked down at the fallen leaves passing beneath their feet. 

"I'm afraid it might be difficult to guide my mind back to the nation's endeavours," he said, "and away from my own... given that they've suddenly become so much more rewarding to me." He lapsed into silence for a moment, resting his cheek on Greg's shoulder. "I've had a rather wonderful weekend. I'll be sorry to leave it behind."

Feeling his soul quietly stir, Greg slowed his pace.

"There'll be others," he said. Mycroft came to a pause on the path; Greg gathered him into a hug, wrapping both arms around him tight. Their chins settled on each other's shoulders. "I'm not gonna vanish with Monday morning, Myc... I promise. I know it feels like a bit a dream, but it's not." 

Mycroft said nothing, quietly rubbing his back.

Greg brushed the tip of his nose against Mycroft's cheek. "We could go for dinner after work tomorrow, f'you like. You can have me to yourself again."

He felt Mycroft smile a little against his neck, leaning into his hug.

"And I can have you too," Greg added, smiling in return. He pressed a little kiss to Mycroft's jaw. "That make you feel better?"

"It does, actually."

"How about if I text you a couple of times during the day?" Greg asked. "Just to say hi."

He felt Mycroft inhale inside his arms. "I'd like that, too," Mycroft said quietly. "Very much. I... I'd find it reassuring."

For a moment there was quiet, as the birdsong glittered gently all around them and a cautious breeze felt its way between the trees.

Greg stroked his fingers slowly through the back of Mycroft's hair, marvelling that the world had somehow brought him to this moment. It made all the misery of divorce feel like there'd been a point to it at last. He couldn't have had this quiet moment, with Mycroft held tight in his arms, if he hadn't fought his way through all the pain.

"It seems amazing, doesn't it?" Mycroft murmured in his ear. Greg felt his entire body glow—his heart, his bones, his soul. "How a single evening can alter so much... a few minutes to relax with you, and talk about something other than Sherlock, and now I... I can't bear the thought of waking up without you lying next to me. All because of a silly costume party."

A flutter of humour offered itself from the back of Greg's mind, easing the tight knot in his heart. He pressed his warm cheek against Mycroft's cooler one. 

"'I came, I saw, I conquered'?" he said.

Mycroft gave a startled, happy laugh. "Well... given that Caeser supposedly triumphed at the Battle of Zela within four hours," he said, "and it took us seven years to reach this point... it's a stretch of the phrase perhaps, but I suppose it's apt."

Greg grinned, trying again. "'Rome wasn't built in a day'?"

His pulse kicked as Mycroft chuckled in his ear. 

"The best things rarely are," Mycroft remarked, gave a sigh and drew back to look at Greg, his grey eyes glittering in the autumn light. He reached up with one hand, stroking his thumb along Greg's stubble. "Mmhm... will Scotland Yard allow you to keep this? Or was it merely for Halloween?"

Greg tilted his head to catch the stroking thumb, kissing it very gently as it swept his lower lip.

"If I grow it out a bit maybe," he said. "Neaten it up... look after it, take it out for walks..." Courage tightened his chest; he couldn't back down now. "Why?" he asked softly, holding Mycroft's gaze. "Does my boyfriend like it?"

Mycroft seemed to inhale the question. 

It took him a moment to speak, looking almost lost.

"Yes," he said at last, in as gentle a voice as Greg had ever heard him use. His fingertips shook on Greg's lips. "As it happens, he rather adores it."

As Greg looked into Mycroft's eyes, he realised that he wanted to see these woods in every season; stand in this spot beneath the very first spring buds, in the wild green heat of summer and in falling winter snow. He wanted to have Mycroft in his arms for every autumn left to come. He wanted to walk here together on a million quiet Sundays, hand-in-hand between the ever-changing trees, and always stop right here upon the path, turn Mycroft to face him and just look into his eyes.

Greg's throat gripped.

He watched, overwhelmed, as Mycroft smiled at him. Understanding warmed his soft grey gaze.

"Shall we walk on a little?" Mycroft said. He leaned close, brushing his lips against Greg's. "Before we start to lose the light."

_ I'm gonna propose to you some day,  _ Greg thought.  _ We'll be standing right here, just like this. And you'll say yes.  _

_ Christ. _

"Sure," he said, as he took his boyfriend's hand. "Lead the way, darlin'. I'm right with you."

_ The End _

  
  



End file.
